


The Unbroken Thread

by dayari (derryday)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Awkward Conversations, Chronic Illness, Community: kinkme_merlin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryday/pseuds/dayari
Summary: In which Arthur hasMicturition syncope, and Merlin develops the annoying habit of burrowing into every part of Arthur's life that's not under lock and key.Originally postedhereatkinkme_merlin.





	The Unbroken Thread

**Author's Note:**

> From my fic backlog! This is a work that I felt somewhat uncertain about when I first posted it on KMM, and I just wanted to thank everyone (again) who left me comments there and on my LJ. Every single one of them encouraged me so much.
> 
> I apologize for any medical inaccuracies. The title has been borrowed from the song by Symphony of Science. 
> 
> Also, the wonderful, incredibly talented [](http://sophinisba.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**sophinisba**](http://sophinisba.dreamwidth.org/) made a [podfic](http://sophinisba.dreamwidth.org/322399.html) of this, and I can't even tell you what an amazing job she did—you'll have to go and see (or rather, hear) for yourselves! Seriously, what are you even hanging around here for, go over there right now and leave her some love for her fantastic work. ♥ ♥

Arthur would like to think that by the time Merlin becomes his manservant, he has already gotten used to it.

Which is a lie, of course—but of all the little half-truths he has told his father in his life, this is one he can't bring himself to regret, not when it erases the dark shadows around the king's eyes, little by little. Although it never slows to a stop, the string of executions dwindles the longer Arthur maintains the lie, and Arthur tells himself that he should be grateful.

It started just after his twentieth birthday, and for about a week Arthur had thought he was just coming down with something. He'd carried on with his life as usual, he'd gone hunting, sniped at Morgana, and stood behind his father's throne during audiences. And when he really had caught quite a nasty summer cold a few days later, he'd thought that that was all there was to it.

Two weeks after that, a few carefully-chosen words from Gaius had shattered the false sense of security, although the physician had avoided Arthur's gaze in a somewhat futile attempt to soften the blow and allow Arthur a few much-needed seconds to rearrange his features. Nevertheless, it had taken all of Arthur's self-control not to simply throw Gaius out of the room and huddle in on himself, curl up under the bedcovers until the hollow feeling of bone-deep mortification went away.

But he hadn't said a word, because his father was already speaking for him, expressing the disbelief and sudden fury that couldn't work their way through the shame roiling in Arthur's stomach. And so he'd just lain there, let Gaius' careful hands dab ointment onto the impressive bruise on his arm where he must have crashed into the nightstand during his earlier fall into unconsciousness, and kept his eyes studiously on the clench of his father's gloved hand on the bedpost.

A long string of ineffective, foul-tasting remedies later, Arthur had realized that his father thought it was a curse, and that it was the reason for the sudden increase in executions. Uther suspected sorcery, and kept frantically sentencing people to death in the hopes of rooting out whatever magic was afflicting his son.

The thought had made Arthur feel sick, especially after Gaius sat him down in his study and explained the concept of nerves to him, with well-chosen words that soothed the scratchy sting of embarrassment just a little. Nerves were like threads, Gaius told him, like needlework keeping the human body together—not like muscles did, but in a way that allowed his mind to communicate with his limbs, so that his arm lifted when Arthur wanted it to, and his feet took steps when he went for a walk on the battlements. And one of Arthur's threads, it seemed, was oversensitized somehow, or had forgotten what exactly it was supposed to keep together.

"If it's a thread," Arthur had said, inwardly just a little proud of how steady his voice sounded, "why can't we just— break it?"

Gaius replied that it didn't work that way, that he wouldn't dabble in the crown prince's nervous system even if he did know how. He had told Arthur to come to him immediately if anything changed, and promised to continue looking for a cure anyway.

Shortly after that, Arthur told his father that he was feeling a lot better, and that the curse, or whatever it was, appeared to be wearing off, enough for Arthur to get used to it. Uther's relief had been so palpable that Arthur added, before he could stop the words from tumbling out, that the recent executions must have scared off the sorcerer who was responsible.

The next day had dawned bright and sunny, without smoke obscuring the windows of Arthur's room from the courtyard. Arthur had been so relieved that he even allowed himself a rare moment of just leaning against the wall to allow the ringing in his head to subside, after having kicked the chamberpot back under the bed. He had watched the room spin as though spurred into motion by the black spots that still danced across his vision, but even that couldn't tamper his relief at the clear sky and the silence outside, unbroken by the screams of someone burning alive.

The lie had come so easily, and sometimes Arthur still thinks he should feel guilty. He doesn't, though, and so he and Gaius remain the only ones who know that it's not over. And if the dark shadows under his father's eyes seem to transfer to Gaius' as he spends the long hours of the evening still searching through his books for a remedy, Arthur tries to pretend that he doesn't notice.

Then Merlin becomes his manservant, and a few weeks after that, with the memory of a bright ball of light guiding him to safety still seared into his memory, Arthur finds out about Merlin's magic.

* * *

It's not really a conscious decision, but even after the flare of betrayed anger has run its course, Arthur doesn't tell Merlin that he knows. Mostly, it's because he's well aware of how much Merlin seems to _want_ to tell him sometimes, and Arthur can't take that away from him. He sees it in the way Merlin sometimes looks at him when he thinks Arthur doesn't notice, with a curiously soft expression that can't hide the pull of longing in his eyes. But Arthur does notice, and so he finds himself willing to give Merlin the time he needs without second thought.

He lets his mind settle around the knowledge, not all that surprised when, after the initial shock and disbelief, it becomes just another piece of the oddly endearing puzzle that is his manservant. And Merlin is none the wiser—as far as he's concerned, Arthur spent about a week throwing things at him in a terrible temper for no apparent reason, went another few days without talking to Merlin at all, and after that, things went back to normal.

If there's anything that Arthur's affliction has taught him, it's that everyone has secrets. Some spill over the edges with barely any coaxing at all, some are divulged only with the loosening of the tongue that comes with copious amounts of wine, and some are buried too deeply to ever be unearthed. A few of them want to be told, like Merlin's magic, and others don't.

Sometimes Arthur goes days, even _weeks_ without ever feeling the sickening lurch of the floor being pulled away from under his feet, the rush of air past his ears and the faraway realization that he's falling. Every time he tells himself not to hope that it's gone away for good, but he always does anyway, and when it comes back, the irrational frustration never lessens. It's so profoundly _unfair_ , somehow, that his body betrays him like this when he's spent years stretching its limits on the training field and had believed that he knew it inside and out.

In a way, it reminds Arthur of an ink stain on a fresh sheet of parchment, spilled by a careless hand before the first stroke of the quill—if it can't be washed off, you just need to write around it, and hope that whatever story you're telling will still be legible. And that's just what Arthur does, once he's fooled himself into thinking that he's gotten used to it.

But the scratchy, anxious feeling never quite goes away. Lucky as he is to live in a time of relative peace, Arthur has never experienced a war first-hand, but all the same, he can't help thinking that this is what being under siege must be like. It's an incessant, irritating nag at the back of his mind, like the dulled edge of a knife that Arthur keeps snagging his hand on, no matter how careful he is.

Mostly, he tries not to think of the unbroken thread in his spine—or in his bladder, or wherever this disobedient nerve might be. In a way, he's glad that he doesn't know where it is, because sometimes he wakes in a cold sweat from dreams of calmly digging through his abdomen with the bejeweled dagger his father gave him for his sixteenth birthday, in search of just the right thread to pull out.

When he wakes up, his stomach is always knotted into a ball of tension, as though the the nerve had seen his dream and was hiding itself behind every muscle in its reach. The seconds it takes him to realize that there is no blood on his hands and the dagger is still safely tucked between the bedframe and the mattress never get less scary, no matter how often he wakes from that particular dream.

Another stain, then, and either way, Arthur will be damned if he lets himself be disturbed by the images his mind provides him with. He watches dawn creep into the night sky, knowing from experience that trying to go back to sleep with the remembered stickiness of his own blood still seeming to cling to his fingers would be a futile effort, and gets up in the morning as if nothing had happened. And if he's even more impatient with Merlin on those days, if the knights notice at all that his movements at training are just a little sluggish with how little he slept, no one makes the mistake of mentioning it.

* * *

Of course, just like Arthur caught on to the magic pretty quickly, Merlin eventually finds out.

(And what had his father been _thinking_ , giving him a manservant— _oh wait_ , Arthur concludes dryly as his mind is slowly roused back to consciousness, it's his own fault for lying to Uther and telling him that the illness or curse or whatever it is has faded.

Sure, he's had a manservant before, but the quiet elderly man had been assigned by the steward, and was instructed by the king himself to keep the necessary invasions of Arthur's privacy to a minimum. It only occurred to Arthur that Merlin had never received any such orders after the first few weeks, and then it had simply seemed too much of a bother to catch up on that.

Knowing Merlin, Arthur strongly suspects that Merlin would have ignored those particular instructions anyway, if they had been given to him—or at least he would have argued and nagged and asked inappropriate questions. He'd have refused to be kept at arm's length, with the way he just keeps burrowing in everywhere, effortlessly moulding himself into every part of Arthur's life even after little more than a month.

And Arthur doesn't even _want_ him to back off most of the time, which is a dangerous thought in and of itself. He likes Merlin's company, likes how close they've gotten despite the constant bickering. He doesn't want to lose that, even though he knows he shouldn't, and the possibility of Merlin finding out is a risk that Arthur has found worth taking, at least until now.)

"—thur! Arthur, _Arthur_ , sire, please wake up, _Arthur_ —"

The shouting does nothing to alleviate the pounding in Arthur's head, and he groans without opening his eyes, swatting weakly at Merlin's hand where he's uselessly shaking his shoulder. The hand stills but doesn't let go, and Merlin heaves a great shaky sigh of relief that sounds like he's beginning to smile, in that half-crazed, relieved way that Arthur also saw on the tournament grounds after his duel with Valiant.

That prompts Arthur to finally crack his eyes open, and sure enough, Merlin's expression is the picture of relief, although he looks slightly paler than usual. He helps Arthur prop himself up into a sitting position, and Arthur only shakes off his touch when the floor seems to have stopped its dangerous swaying. His arm hurts, a dull, pounding, already familiar ache, and there's a smudge of pain where he must have hit the back of his head.

But apparently he fell onto his side, not flat on his face, and after a history of bruised foreheads and bloody noses, Arthur knows to be grateful for small favors. He'll wait a few hours, see how bad the bruising will get, and maybe go down to Gaius before supper.

Merlin is talking, Arthur realizes after a moment, a nervous rush of words that he can't seem to put a stop to. "—was coming back with your laundry," he babbles, gesturing animatedly. Sure enough, when Arthur looks towards the door, he sees a bundle of his clothes strewn across the floor where Merlin must have dropped them in shock. "And I saw you lying on the floor, and I was so scared, I thought—"

Arthur tunes him out again and carefully stretches his arm, testing the soreness there until he's sure that nothing's broken. Then he gets started on the long, tedious task of drawing himself back up into a standing position, because he can't properly deflect the worry shining in Merlin's eyes while sitting down.

"—Careful," Merlin warns, the word cutting through the stream of his own babbling. Out of nowhere, his hand is on Arthur's arm again, the left arm, not the one he just smashed into the floor with all his weight, and with his help, Arthur manages to prop himself up against the bedpost. The dizziness is receding just as speedily as usual, the pain in his arm is dulling already, and Arthur spares a brief moment for thanking whichever gods might be listening that he managed to lace his breeches back up before the darkness claimed him.

"I'm fine now," Arthur snaps, instinctively annoyed at the genuine concern in Merlin's voice. Then he thinks, just a little guiltily, that irritation is not really an appropriate reaction to someone worrying about him. Arthur doesn't quite know why he should be concerned about Merlin's feelings when they communicate through smartass competitions most of the time anyway, but nevertheless, he finds himself adding, in a slightly calmer tone, "I probably ate something funny."

Merlin nods, his face uncertain but still full of relief, and Arthur wonders what he thought when he came in and saw his prince lying on the floor. He must have started prattling away about something or other the second he opened the door (without knocking, surely), and probably didn't even notice Arthur at first. But he might have turned around at the distinct lack of a response, and apparently dropped everything he was holding at the sight of Arthur's blond head peeking out from behind the bed.

At any rate, Merlin's smile makes something strange and heated unfurl in Arthur's stomach, something unfamiliar that dizzies him anew, and he orders Merlin out of the room before he can think better of it.

Only later, when Merlin returns with a still-puzzled but slightly apologetic smile and a tray of food, does Arthur realize that the hot coil in his belly did not stem from embarrassment.

* * *

One of the first habits Arthur formed—and it's probably the most important one, next to the one he keeps forgetting ever since Merlin came along, namely to keep his door locked at nearly all times—was to carefully schedule his day around the times he allows himself to ingest anything liquid.

On an average day, he usually takes a few sips of diluted wine with his breakfast, just enough to relieve the dryness of his mouth (and to take Merlin's eyebrow down from its high, Gaius-esque perch on his forehead whenever his eyes come to rest on Arthur's still-full goblet). That way he can make it through audiences without having to retreat to his chambers even once, although his throat is usually parched to the point of painfulness when he sits down to eat in the middle of the day. 

Despite Merlin's quizzical glances from the other end of the room, Arthur can never stop himself from downing goblet after goblet of water with his lunch, no matter how often he resolves to drink only just enough to relieve his headache. Before long, the pitcher of water on the table always empties, though, and Arthur sends Merlin away on some errand that will keep him occupied for a while when he feels the first tell-tale tightening in his abdomen.

The afternoon drills with his knights are more difficult, though, because even though Arthur prides himself on his constitution of steel, even the crown prince of Camelot can't endure hours of physical exertion without drinking _anything_. Frustration wells in his gut every time he has to jog to the sidelines for a quick swallow of the cool water that's waiting for him and his men in earthen jugs, but Arthur isn't fool enough to deny himself even that small measure of relief. Sometimes he can go back to his chambers with a measured walk in the evening, sometimes he has to run, but so far he hasn't had to beat a quick retreat into a random copse of trees and hope that no one sees him.

It's a routine he doesn't dare to let go of even during those weeks when his affliction seems to lie dormant. The hope bubbles up in his chest every time, no matter how much Arthur tries to squash the feeling, but he never knows when it might come back. _When_ , not _if_ —and that's a lesson that Arthur hates his subconscious mind for ever having learned so perfectly.

As much as Arthur enjoys the hunts with his knights—and, yes, with Merlin as well—they're the hardest. He never knows how long they'll be away from Camelot, and while the undergrowth at the heart of the forest is thick enough to hide him from prying eyes, Arthur knows that it would just be a matter of minutes until someone came looking for him.

That's exactly the type of worst case scenario that Arthur firmly does not allow himself to think about, and so he never even sips the goblet of water Merlin fills for him at breakfast when he knows that he'll be out hunting for the rest of the morning. He can't tell whether Merlin notices—and sometimes Arthur thinks he does, with the way his hands pause sometimes in the act of polishing Arthur's hauberk as his eyes travel from the goblet to Arthur's carefully blank expression and back. But even if Merlin does notice, he never says anything.

He didn't train his knights to be unobservant, though, and so Arthur has made a habit of never taking a group hunting more than once in a month—he selects different men to accompany him each week. That way, if any of the knights comment on the way he keeps handing them back the waterskins without having taken even a sip, Arthur can just say that he doesn't feel very thirsty on that particular day.

It's always at least a half-truth, of course, and unlike the one he keeps telling his father, this is a lie he regrets. The knights are _his_ , in a way—they look up to him and follow him and sometimes try to take care of him, and the occasional spark of concern in their eyes stings more than Arthur would like to admit.

The alternative would be worse, though, and so Arthur does his best to ignore the increasing dryness in his mouth as the morning wears on and the sun starts warming their backs. Morning mist still hovers in the air between the trees, shimmering in the light like clouds taken down from the sky, and his knights are in a good mood, jovially trading jokes and taunts as they wonder aloud who will slay the first game of the day. 

By the time they've shot two rabbits, sweat is beading on all of their foreheads, running into their eyes, and Arthur curses the surprisingly warm day as they settle down for lunch. He forces some bread and cheese down his parched throat and declines with an ease born only of practice when Sir Gareth offers him his waterskin.

It gets steadily worse from there, and when they finally find a suitably large deer to pursue, Arthur can't recall a time when his mouth didn't feel like the dusty inside of one of the long-neglected drawers in his cupboard. His throat is parchment-dry, and even the air seems to scratch thin bloody lines down to his lungs like fingernails. A fissure of pain is doing its best to cleave open his head, and Arthur is pretty sure that there are tiny spots dancing in his vision as he helps Sir Leon butcher the deer.

He hates the thirst, hates it with an unbearable fierceness that makes his blood boil, because he knows that he always loses the fight in the end. When they've returned to Camelot, Arthur practically throws himself off of his horse in his haste to get inside. He doesn't stop to return Morgana's greeting, not breaking stride as he rounds a corner and bounds up a stairwell, and so he misses the brief flicker of concern in her eyes.

The door to his chambers bangs open, and from the corner of his eye Arthur sees Merlin flinch and look at him in utter surprise—he's sitting on Arthur's bed, the insolent whelp, mending a pile of shirts. Merlin says something that Arthur doesn't listen to, something about how he hadn't expected the hunting party to be back this early, but then he falls silent and watches Arthur cross the room to the table with slightly confused eyes.

Arthur doesn't even bother with the goblet; he just tries to breathe deeply to dispel the dizziness, and props his hip against the table when that doesn't work. He lifts the pitcher with shaking hands, dimly noticing that it's still half full, and drinks and drinks until there's nothing left, until tiny rivulets of water are running down his throat and into his shirt, and he can't remember when water last tasted this heavenly.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve when he sets the pitcher back down with a clang, feeling Merlin's bemused gaze on him. But it feels like his blood is already thinning, flowing easier with the cool weight of water settling comfortably in his stomach, and right there and then, Arthur can't bring himself to feel ashamed, or even self-conscious.

"Forgot your waterskin?" Merlin says from the bed, sounding a little like he's trying to put two and two together and failing.

The thought of his manservant struggling even with the easiest of mathematical tasks makes Arthur smile a little, although his head is still pounding and the vertigo hasn't receded yet. "Something like that," he replies, and allows himself to lean against the table for just a moment longer, feeling oddly safe with the unassuming invisible touch of Merlin's gaze resting on his back.

* * *

Some time ago, Gaius told him, in a carefully neutral tone that he probably meant to soothe the awkward tension in the air, that it would be advisable for him to use the chamberpot while sitting down.

Which makes sense, of course, and that's precisely the reason why Arthur has always refused to follow the well-meaning advice. Rationally, he knows it would be more convenient—the falls wouldn't be as bad, the bruises not as livid against his skin. He could even sit on the edge of the bed and simply slump back into the mattress until the black spots stop flickering through his vision or pull him into darkness at last. And if Merlin came in then, he'd be none the wiser, and later Arthur could claim that he just felt like taking a short nap.

But for some reason, the thought alone makes his blood boil and causes his teeth to grind on their own accord. Arthur is a prince, but he is also a knight, and he cannot, _will not_ acquiesce and back down to this. It would feel like surrendering hard-won ground, like a retreat that would hurt Arthur's pride every step along the way, even worse than the hot coal of humiliated frustration that takes up permanent residence in his throat whenever he wakes with unlaced breeches after a fall.

Somehow he gets the distinct feeling that if Merlin knew of those thoughts, he would just call Arthur a prat. And that is kind of reassuring in its consistency, after all, and later, Arthur thinks that it might have been the feeling of always being able to rely on Merlin's utter disregard for anything like propriety that made him take Merlin with him to hunt.

Merlin seems to believe him the first four times Arthur turns down his offers of water with claims of not being thirsty, but little by little, suspicion creeps in. Even in the protective shade of the trees, it's uncomfortably hot for a spring day, and Arthur feels like a dried fruit by the time they sit down for lunch in a small clearing. He's shot two rabbits already, and Arthur knows that the kitchens are overflowing with meat from the bear he and his knights killed just a week ago. But he's still well aware of the pointed comments his father made about the decorative value of antlers last night, a thinly veiled order to bring home another deer, and so they keep advancing further into the forest.

The cheese is surprisingly salty, which tastes good but worsens Arthur's thirst, to the point that his eyes greedily follow the bob of Merlin's throat as he drinks deeply from the large skin they've taken with them. There's a fine sheen of sweat collecting on what little Arthur can see of Merlin's collarbones—the day really is quite warm, and Merlin kept falling over his own feet every few steps and scaring the game away (well, save for the two suicidal rabbits, that is). Still, Arthur can't tear his gaze away. Just watching Merlin drink makes him feel like water is running down his own throat as well, finally alleviating the scratchy woolen feeling in his mouth.

Merlin lowers the waterskin at last, and just looks at Arthur in silence for a moment before holding it out. He's absently licking the last drops of water from his lips, but his gaze is oddly calculating, as though he's testing a theory.

Arthur realizes that he must have stopped chewing some time ago, and swallows his mouthful of bread with some difficulty. He coughs once, and actually has to force himself to stop—his throat is itching, an incessant scratch just out of reach of what little wetness is still in his mouth. It makes him even dizzier, but he still shakes his head at Merlin and gently shoves the waterskin away.

Merlin blinks, raising his eyebrows. "Are you sure?" he asks, sounding suspiciously innocent. "You haven't drunk anything yet after that single sip of water you had with your breakfast."

It could just be the sting of sweat in his eyes, or the persistent burn in his parched throat, or just Merlin's tone. Either way, Arthur finds himself suddenly irritated, and gives Merlin a black look before he says, sharply, "So now it's your duty to monitor my eating habits, is it?"

By the time Arthur sees tiny frown between Merlin's eyebrows, he already knows that it was the wrong thing to say. "Actually, it is," Merlin replies, in a tone that sounds like he normally uses it to placate small children. He gestures at Arthur with the hand still holding the waterskin, and Arthur grits his teeth so hard they hurt when he hears the liquid sloshing around within. "You had a cramp in your leg earlier—don't try to deny it, any fool would have seen the way you were limping. You haven't been drinking enough."

And he holds the skin out once more. Arthur stares unthinkingly at the insistence in Merlin's eyes, the softness of concern that lurks just underneath. More than ever, Arthur feels like he's being tested, and it makes his resolve harden into stubbornness as he tries to squash the thin fissure of disappointment that threads its way through his thoughts. True, Merlin challenges him incessantly on an average day, but he has always seemed so sure of Arthur, so utterly certain in the awareness of who he is that Merlin, at least, never needed to test him at all.

But then again, Arthur thinks, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, there's always the possibility that this is not really about _him_. Maybe Merlin is suspecting something—maybe he aimlessly leafed through Gaius' books one day and found—

" _Drink_ ," Merlin snaps, the single word sounding like a command, and shoves the skin at him again. "I'll sit on you and force you if I have to."

Arthur snorts at that, almost against his will. His thoughts are reeling, chasing each other in a frenzied sprint across the blank horizon of his mind, and his stomach feels funny, although he's not sure why. "You think _you_ could force me?" he asks, making an effort to sound suitably casual, but he takes the skin anyway, the motion little more than a knee-jerk reaction to having the thing practically shoved into his face, and a second later he wishes he hadn't.

He can almost _feel_ the water through the leather, a liquid cooling weight between his hands that makes him swallow convulsively around the sandy dryness in his mouth. Just a sip, an alluring voice whispers from the back of his mind, a single sip wouldn't be so bad, just enough to wet his tongue until it stops feeling like he's been licking a dusty road...

Merlin is still staring at him, but his eyes remain blue, and so Arthur knows that it's not Merlin making his hands move as he uncaps the skin and raises it to his lips. Still, _he_ certainly didn't tell his head to tip back, or his fingers to guide his mouth to the slosh and dribble of water. He feels his throat work of its own accord with every swallow, but no matter how sternly Arthur tells his arms to lower because _one sip_ was all he intended to drink, they won't move. 

He drinks until the skin is nearly empty and the occasional twinges in his calf subside along with the dull ache behind his eyes. It's only the thought of the warm weather that finally forces him to stop, because Merlin will need to stay hydrated as well for the rest of the hunt. Arthur hands him the waterskin and wipes his mouth, suddenly feeling self-conscious; Merlin's smile, relieved and maybe a little apologetic, makes his stomach clench slightly around the soothing coolness of the water.

"I just wanted to save myself the trouble of hauling your dehydrated carcass back to Camelot," Merlin says after a short silence, somewhat defensively, but to Arthur's surprise, his indignation at being ordered around has faded along with his thirst. "You're heavy, you know."

After a short pause, Arthur asks, "Are you calling me fat?" in a deceptively casual tone. He pounces before Merlin can think of a suitable reply, and Merlin's high-pitched giggles echo off the canopy of trees as Arthur tackles him to the ground, mercilessly exploiting his knowledge of Merlin's ticklish spots until Merlin shouts a laughing surrender into the sunlit trees.

* * *

By the time they're riding into the courtyard, Arthur has already cursed himself often enough to have lost count somewhere at the edge of the forest.

He orders Merlin to take care of the horses, and doesn't wait for a cheeky reply before he retreats to his chambers, and doesn't stop running until the door has closed behind him. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he thinks at himself, furiously, because he should have known better than that, especially because letting his guard down like that has long since been beneath him. Trust Merlin to sneak past his defenses like that and bloody _goad_ him into—

As comforts go, the feeling of his bladder finally, _finally_ emptying after an hour on horseback is a small one. It's so much like some of his nightmares that Arthur almost believes that it's just a dream, for a single, blessed moment after the doors of his chambers have banged open behind him. 

Then whatever Merlin has been carrying clatters to the floor, and he shouts Arthur's name in that tone that Arthur thinks he'll never get used to—it's somewhere between panicked dismay and the firmness of a command, as though he's trying to get Arthur out of whatever danger he's in by sheer force of will. 

The wall is coming rather close, Arthur realizes with a dim sort of surprise as the floor seems to heave and buck under him, determined to shake him off. And it looks rather solid, too, and suddenly a hand is fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling his collar painfully tight around his throat in a futile effort to break his fall, and Arthur has just enough time to curse himself for not having locked the door in his haste before the darkness claims him.

The next thing he feels is a sharp sting of pain across his left cheek, and Arthur's eyes snap open on their own accord. His stomach muscles twitch weakly, trying to prop up his body into a sitting position, but then he recognizes the familiar sight of the canopy of his bed above and allows himself to slump back into the pillows.

Then he just lies there for a moment until the echo of his own heartbeat stops roaring in his ears. He feels vaguely nauseous lying down like that, and his shoulder kind of hurts, little stings that he knows will have increased into a full-blown throb by the time he'll finally feel steady enough to get up again.

Merlin, on the other hand, just looks immensely relieved, because he's smiling as though Arthur had performed some sort of heroic deed by waking up again. There's a blanket covering him, and a hand on his head—the blanket is a bit too warm, but the hand feels rather nice, all things considered, with the way Merlin's fingers keep sifting through Arthur's hair. It must be an unconscious motion, but it still warms him a little, especially when he realizes that Merlin must have lifted him onto the bed. Which is no mean feat, given how scrawny Merlin is and how he sometimes stumbles a bit even under the weight of Arthur's armor.

Arthur blinks up at Merlin in utter silence for a moment, taking in the relief in Merlin's expression that seems a bit exaggerated, before he says, very evenly, "Did you just _slap me?_ "

Merlin's free hand immediately starts to fidget with the blanket. "Well," he starts, his tone torn somewhere between apologetic, worried and belligerent, "I had to wake you up somehow! It was that or pour a pitcher of water over your head!"

Arthur starts to roll his eyes, but stops immediately with a grimace when the motion causes a sharp sting of pain behind his eyes. Merlin's fingers tighten in his hair, a hint of the earlier frenzied worry returning to his gaze, but Arthur just raises his eyebrows at him until Merlin flushes and snatches his hand back.

"Sorry," he mumbles, ineffectively. Arthur's head feels oddly cold without the warmth of Merlin's touch, and with the vestiges of unconsciousness still clouding his mind, he almost tells him to put it back before he catches himself.

Merlin is sitting cross-legged on the bed, but he scoots backwards when Arthur tries to get up a second time. He watches in silence as Arthur struggles up into a half-sitting position, leaning heavily against the headboard; from the corner of his eye, Arthur can still see Merlin's fingers fidget with the blanket, as though he has to make a conscious effort not to reach out.

His head is spinning again by the time he has managed to prop himself up against the headboard, but Arthur ignores it, just tries to breathe deeply and clear his mind. He doesn't like the way Merlin is watching him, cautious and oddly patient, like one might look at a skittish horse. There's something in Merlin's eyes that Arthur can't quite place, a sort of understanding that makes an already familiar cold weight of dread begin to settle in his stomach.

Too late, Arthur realizes that under the blanket, the laces of his breeches are still undone.

When Merlin speaks, the weight slams ice through Arthur's veins and makes his heart jump into his throat, because he doesn't think he's ever heard his manservant use that tone before with him. Merlin sounds like he's suddenly tired of trying to come up with the best way of saying whatever he wants to say, and has decided to make it quick and hopefully painless, like peeling a scab off a well-healed wound. "So apparently, you—," he starts, his voice determined, and makes a vague hand motion that could signify 'faint' or 'do laundry', "whenever you—"

He falls silent again when words appear to fail him, and Arthur can't help but feel grateful that Merlin at least didn't say it aloud.

For just a moment, Arthur wishes fleetingly that he had listened to Gaius' tentative advice more often, if only just to be able to tell whether very realistic hallucinations can be an aftereffect of fainting. He stares at Merlin's vaguely embarrassed, persistent expression for what feels like a pretty long time, while his heart thrashes against his ribcage like the frenzied wings of a trapped bird. 

Merlin doesn't speak again, though, and Arthur thinks numbly that his manservant can't be that bad at mathematics after all, because somewhere along the line, he must have succeeded in putting two and two together without Arthur noticing.

Then he wonders, somewhat hazily, why he hasn't said anything yet, and why his thoughts aren't tumbling and spiraling out of control with the icy, unrelenting feeling in his gut. But trying to think of something to say is like dragging his feet through mud, although Arthur knows that he _should_ be feeling something else but numbness, that this is a perfect moment for some yelling and candlestick-throwing until Merlin leaves. Or better yet, Arthur could just sack him on the spot and spare himself the pit of hollow, all-consuming mortification that's slowly starting to open up in his stomach.

But somehow the relief is still there, tucked away behind the quiet resolution in Merlin's eyes, and it takes Arthur a long moment to realize that Merlin is relieved because he knows now, because Arthur's silence was confirmation enough. He must have thought about it for some time, quietly watching and worrying and slotting puzzle pieces into place and maybe doing some research for backup. 

It's hard to work up enough steam for yelling when faced with Merlin's earnest expression, though, and Arthur lets himself think that he's just waiting for Merlin to say the sort of outrageously stupid thing that would allow Arthur to mock him and take this conversation back to a ground with which they're both familiar.

"Gaius—," Merlin begins again, after a long pause that Arthur spent counting his unsteady heartbeats and wondering, with a distant sort of annoyance, why he can't summon the words to end this conversation right now.

"Knows," Arthur interrupts, his voice coming out scratchy with disuse, and of course his guts choose that exact moment to transform from what felt like stone into a bunch of squirming snakes. 

He gets the feeling that Merlin sees that somehow, because he opens and closes his mouth a few times, and drops his hands back into his lap after a short, aborted movement that looks like he'd wanted to touch hesitant fingers to Arthur's shoulder. And Arthur can't help but feel relieved, because his hands have betrayed him once today in the clearing, and Arthur isn't quite sure whether they wouldn't come up to push Merlin off the bed, if Merlin made the mistake of touching him now.

There's another silence, this one even heavier. Merlin has started fidgeting again, and he's biting his lip, looking like he's not so sure anymore if his stumbling, straightforward words were the right way to go about addressing this. He seems to be searching for something to say, and Arthur fervently hopes that he won't find anything.

"Well," Merlin says at last, uncertainly. Too late, Arthur realizes that this is the tone he has never wanted to hear, the carefully hushed voice of someone wishing to comfort. "I always feel sort of woozy at the sight of my own blood—"

Arthur closes his eyes. _Now_ he's starting to feel the first pinpricks of irritation, and the constricting wave of shamed, shameful humiliation that rises in his chest nearly chokes him. "Get out."

"Arthur—"

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur snaps back, unable to stop a little of the helpless anger from bleeding into his voice, and Merlin recoils as though he's been struck. "I am asking you to get out of this room."

The _'don't make me make it an order'_ remains unsaid, but after a short pause, Merlin goes anyway.

* * *

Half an hour later, Arthur has still not gotten up from the bed—not because of any residual dizziness, but simply because there is nowhere else he feels like he should be.

And of course Merlin comes back. Arthur hears the approach of his footsteps out in the hallway, and wonders for just a moment whether he should summon the energy to get up and lock the door, but discards the thought again. Knowing Merlin, he'd just oh-so-inconspicuously unlock it with magic, or ambush Arthur the next morning on his way downstairs.

The door opens and shuts again, but at least Merlin doesn't step closer. Arthur keeps his gaze firmly on the window across from him—the daylight is fading already, impending dusk saturating the sky with just the barest hint of purple. The rabbits they brought home are probably being roasted downstairs, and his father will make pointed remarks about the distinct lack of antlers at dinner, and right now Arthur just rather wants to roll over and sleep for a day and forget that this ever happened.

"Gaius says there's a nerve," Merlin states after a while, with the same dogged determination from before. Apparently he's not satisfied with having ripped off the scab—no, he wants to thoroughly inspect the scar as well.

"My _last_ nerve," Arthur says, deliberately obtuse, making quite an impressive effort to infuse his tone with some of their usual banter. "And you're getting on it."

"I don't know much about it," Merlin continues, like he hasn't heard Arthur's words at all, "but apparently it's responsible for lowering the heart rate—"

When Arthur realizes that Merlin is basically rehashing everything Gaius has already told him, he tunes him out, and wonders, not for the first time in the past thirty minutes, if he's supposed to sack Merlin now. He probably should—common sense tells him as much, along with every single nightmare he's ever had about a scenario like this—but his mind feels frozen somehow. It's like even his thoughts have been shocked into utter silence by the fact that Merlin just marched back into Arthur's room and is now rambling about nerves and hearts and muscles. He sounds serious enough, if also slightly uncertain underneath the veneer of what sounds suspiciously like what Arthur has labeled Gaius' "physician's voice," and not like he's so much as smiling.

He doesn't _want_ to sack Merlin, though, because as abysmal as his service is on an ordinary day, if there's one thing about Merlin that Arthur has come to treasure over time, it's his friendship. And he knows that Merlin cherishes it too, and Arthur would rather not take it away from both of them just because he's irritated with Merlin's _stupid brain_ that somehow managed to draw the right conclusions.

But the anger feels oddly artificial by now, as if Arthur just summoned the roiling frustration in his stomach because he feels like it should be there, and not because it came naturally. It's hard to keep his gaze on the window in the face of Merlin's blundering attempt at— _making conversation_ about this, or whatever it is he's trying to do. Hell, it's hard enough for Arthur to even hold on to the tight, icy ball of mortification in his gut when Merlin sounds so sincere, his earnest tone imploring Arthur to finally look at him and see for himself that Merlin has never felt less like laughing at him.

Arthur doesn't know what to do with that, though, has no idea how _not_ to be ashamed of this, and so he stares sightlessly at the window until his eyes burn. He remembers the relief on Merlin's face when he'd woken up again, the gentle fingers treading absently through his hair as though they've wanted to do that for such a long time that Merlin couldn't make them stop once they'd started. Something heavy and painful is knitting a lump into Arthur's throat, building a pressure that he can't swallow down.

"Arthur," Merlin says, frustrated, sounding like he's gesturing madly along with his words; the medical lecture seems to be over, and Arthur is not all that surprised to find that Merlin appears to have reached his wit's end. "Would you just _stop_ being so— would you at least _look_ at me?" He sighs, a sharp, frustrated exhale that sounds oddly helpless, for all his earlier bravado. "This is not—"

With a flare of real irritation, Arthur finds that he doesn't want to wait for Merlin to finish that thought. "Not _what?_ " Arthur asks, the words coming out dripping with sarcasm. "The single most mortifying day of my life?" He laughs once, although it just makes the scratchy knot in his throat hurt even more, and finally looks at Merlin, who is returning his gaze with slight confusion. "I realize that you're savoring this golden opportunity to make fun of me, but—"

"I'm not," Merlin interrupts, and Arthur splutters a little when his manservant has the gall to appear _hurt_. Cornered and humiliated as he feels, Arthur can't quite see that Merlin has never looked less amused in all the time they've known each other. "Arthur, I'm not making fun of you, I'm not laughing. I would _never_ —"

"You will not finish that sentence if you know what's good for you," Arthur snaps, "and you will never, ever speak of this again, or I'll—"

Merlin sighs again, and rakes a hand through his hair. Arthur can see now that a flush has been trying to creep into his face all along, with the way the tips of his ears have reddened—this must be uncomfortable for him as well. "Okay," he says slowly, seeming to put a conscious effort into not rising to the bait and snap back at Arthur with something insulting. "You're upset and embarrassed, and I understand that. I'll just— go now, and come back tomorrow, and you could kick your knights across the training grounds until dinner, if that'll make you feel better."

Arthur opens and closes his mouth for a moment before the words fully register with him. Then he grabs the next best thing from his nightstand, spurred on by the white-hot rush of useless anger that flashes through him at the word _'upset'_ , but Merlin has already ducked out of the room by the time the candlestick collides with the door.

* * *

Things refuse to go back to normal after that, and most of the time Arthur isn't quite sure what to think about that.

Until now, Arthur had assumed that Merlin has about as much common sense as a slightly chipped piece of furniture. But apparently there are some vestiges of tact lodged between those enormous ears of his, because during the next few days, he doesn't force that particular topic of conversation on Arthur again. Arthur tells himself to be wary of this sudden truce, and is not all that surprised when he finds that he can't. Almost against his will, he feels the restless, humiliated coldness in his mind settle down, soothed by the days of careful silence.

The illusion of Merlin finally having learned his place is shattered quite spectacularly, though, when he looks up from where he's sharpening Arthur's sword one morning, all guileless big blue eyes, and says, "You didn't drink anything."

Arthur pauses, his hand already on the doorhandle. Nearly a week has passed, and he'd almost been led to believe that even Merlin was not fool enough to overstep this particular new-found border, but apparently he was wrong. "What?" he asks at last, half hoping that he's just misheard him, while knowing at the same time that this is just the sort of insolent thing that's prone to fall from Merlin's mouth when Arthur least expects it.

Merlin looks back down at the sword, carefully running the whetstone over the blade. The movement is too slow, he'll never get it sharpened that way, but Arthur knows that Merlin is well aware how it's done right—he probably just keeps doing it to keep his hands occupied.

"You'll get a headache during audiences," Merlin tells him, conversationally, although there's just the barest hint of steel in his tone, as if the sturdiness of the sword in his hands inspired him. "And then you'll be grouchy for the rest of the day—"

"I am never grouchy," Arthur starts to protest, but Merlin just talks right over him, although he's still addressing the words to Arthur's boots rather than his face.

"—and in the end you'll snap, and storm back in here to drain the entire pitcher of water in two gulps," Merlin continues, still as casually as though he's informing Arthur of the latest castle gossip, "and you'll make yourself sick like you did last month, and then I'll have to clean that up. And it'll all be very inconvenient."

"What?" Arthur says again, because the alternative would be to demand how anything of that would be more inconvenient than cracking his head open on the floor after the damnable nerve plunged him into unconsciousness again. 

He's a little startled at the way the retort seems to hover on his tongue, though, the words almost tumbling from his mouth, and it's all he can do to hold them back with that inane question. In all the months since he first woke up on the floor with an impressive bump where his head had smashed into the wall, Arthur can't recall _ever_ having said anything like that, and he's certainly not going to start _now_.

Merlin finally raises his gaze to Arthur's face again, and yes, there's definitely something steely there, barely hidden by that special brand of wide-eyed, imploring determination that always pulls at something unfamiliar and aching in Arthur's chest. "Just one goblet," Merlin says, quietly now, and with nothing of his earlier casualness. He hesitates, on the brink of saying something more, but he still seems to carefully lay out the words in front of his mind's eye before he adds, "I promise you won't regret it."

Before Arthur fully realizes what he's doing, he has already crossed the room back to the remains of his breakfast on the table, the empty plate and the brimful goblet. The first mouthful of water feels more soothing in his parched throat than the honeyed bread he ate earlier, and he lets himself drink until the goblet is empty and he feels the slight twinge recede from his temples. Merlin is right, after all, and he's been so earnestly calm about it, nothing like his usual bumbling self, and Arthur never knows what else to do in the face of that but trust him.

Merlin looks oddly proud when Arthur puts the goblet back on the table with a clang. It's the sort of steady, quietly reverent gaze that somehow makes Arthur want to straighten his shirt and check surreptitiously if there's something unflattering stuck to his face. But of course crown princes do not fidget, and so Arthur just orders Merlin to muck out his stables when he's done with the sword, and closes the door on Merlin's now mildly annoyed gaze.

An hour later, when Arthur has just begun to fidget a little in his seat next to the king, Merlin walks up to him, his eyes demurely lowered to the floor as he bows. He whispers to Arthur about Sir Leon having an urgent matter to discuss with him, and Arthur follows him out of the hall at his father's nod, slightly puzzled because he's fairly sure Leon headed out for a hunt this morning.

Merlin gives him a hesitant smile when they're out in the corridor, and it could just be a trick of the light, but his face seems a little flushed, his eyes triumphantly bright, as though getting Arthur out of the hall had been some great accomplishment—

_Oh_ , Arthur thinks, and Merlin says, "Sir Leon said he'd wait for you outside your chambers," rather pointedly. Arthur opens his mouth without having any idea what to say, but Merlin just gives him a silent, oddly hopeful look and quickly mumbles something about having to muck out the stables now.

He's walking away before Arthur can think of a suitable reply, and Arthur looks after him for a long moment. Somehow, he gets the vague impression that his chest shouldn't be feeling lighter than it has in ages, and the gentle flutter in his stomach is probably born of something inappropriate as well. But Arthur still lets both feelings run their course in the deserted hallway, and watches the oddly content-looking bounce in Merlin's step until he disappears behind a corner.

* * *

Ten minutes after that, back in the safety of his chambers, Arthur isn't even all that surprised to find out that his affliction has chosen _today_ , of all days, to retreat behind the curtain.

The only possible explanation, Arthur thinks as he laces his breeches back up, is that Merlin's utter disregard for propriety must have rubbed off on his subconscious mind. His manservant is probably in league with the disobedient thread in Arthur's spine (well, stomach, or wherever) by now, and convinced it to stop acting up just in time, as though to show Arthur that following Merlin's advice brings its own reward. 

That thought is so ridiculous that Arthur rolls his eyes before dismissing it, though, and he saunters over to the table, still marveling at the lack of nauseated vertigo, at the steadiness of his gait. Then he pours himself a goblet of water from the pitcher that's still on his table, suddenly feeling reckless and almost giddy, and drains it with languid sips just because he _can_. And of course Merlin chooses that exact moment to come striding into the room, straw in his hair and faintly smelling of horse manure, an annoyed frown firmly in place on his features.

He stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of Arthur, though, and Arthur puts the goblet down for the second time that day, feeling oddly insecure, like he's done something he shouldn't have. Which is completely ridiculous, of course—the crown prince of Camelot does not have to answer to his manservant about his drinking habits, after all, no matter what Merlin thinks.

When Merlin smiles at him, though, Arthur's stomach lurches in a not entirely unpleasant way, and for a moment he almost thinks that the dizziness has come to claim him after all. But then he realizes that it's just his heart beating out of time for some reason, and his face feeling oddly hot under Merlin's approving gaze. Arthur suspects that there's all sorts of things wrong with that feeling—but still, seeing as Merlin has already thrown propriety out of the window a long time ago, Arthur doesn't see why he shouldn't do the same, if only once in a while.

* * *

It continues like that for some time, until Arthur has nearly forgotten why he's not supposed to let Merlin bully him into downing at least one goblet of water each morning. Sure, Arthur did try half-heartedly to dissuade Merlin from taking it upon himself to ensure that Arthur stays hydrated during the day—but it had just felt so _good_ to go through his daily routine without headaches and muscle cramps snapping at his heels. Everything seems easier somehow, with the absence of fatigue pulling on his muscles and his throat never getting the chance to feel raw and sore.

And well, Merlin is just as unwilling to back down in this as he is with everything else, to the point that he has taken to running after Arthur with a waterskin all day whenever he thinks that Arthur is being particularly stubborn.

Before, when Merlin finding out was still a vague, horrifying prospect that was to be kept from coming true at all cost, Arthur would never have thought that it could be this... easy. Even in retrospect, Arthur can't count the times he's woken up in a cold sweat from dreams of _everyone_ finding out in the most humiliating way possible ( _his father, outraged at both Arthur's lies and the unknown sorcerer that he still thinks to be responsible; Morgana, pitying in a way that makes Arthur feel sick; his knights, unable to look him in the eye without flinching anymore; nameless, faceless people laughing at him behind his back, and sometimes to his face_ ). 

But he never even considered the possibility that Merlin, of all people, would make a habit of falling all over himself to help in any way he can—Arthur never thought that Merlin could be a source of support, not with this. That's exactly what he has become, though, and of all the weird things to get used to, Arthur finds that he doesn't really mind this one all that much.

* * *

The shell-shocked expression on Merlin's face would be hilarious to look at in any other situation, but to Arthur's surprise, it's not all that entertaining up close.

"Merlin," Arthur says, proud of how even his voice sounds. "What the hell was that?"

"Um," Merlin replies, his throat working as he swallows. His expression reminds Arthur of a rabbit just after catching sight of a crossbow, and Arthur can't really blame him for it, with the way the crash of the shattered vase still echoes through the room. 

Arthur waits, and feels an unfamiliar surge of pride well up in him as Merlin squares his shoulders under Arthur's hands and swallows again. Granted, he looks like he's being led to the executioner's block, but his head is held high, and he refuses to lower his gaze when he finally answers, voice only a little unsteady, "I— well, it was supposed to be a kiss."

It didn't come as that much of a surprise, now that Arthur looks back on it. It was just the logical conclusion to a lot of things that Arthur hadn't paid a lot of attention to before now—the way Merlin looks at him sometimes when he thinks Arthur doesn't notice, the weird fluttering thing that has slowly made a home in Arthur's stomach over the weeks, and all those girly things that a crown prince does not allow himself to think about for too long.

"Mm," Arthur hums, and pretends to consider Merlin's words. "And does your magic often smash vases into the wall when you kiss someone?"

Arthur is sure that Merlin would have paled even more, if his skin hadn't already been chalk white. As it is, Merlin just opens and closes his mouth a few times, eyes flickering back and forth between Arthur's own as though in search of something. Again, Arthur waits, rather patiently, just barely managing to keep himself from rubbing soothing circles into Merlin's collarbones with his thumbs.

"But," Merlin finally blurts out, sounding like the word is being torn out of him. "But I— and you—"

"Quite right," Arthur says, jovially, although it's kind of mean to be secretly enjoying the half-panicked, utterly flabbergasted expression on Merlin's face—well, the flabbergasted part, at any rate; the panic, he could do without. He squeezes Merlin's shoulders again, reassuring.

Merlin looks like he'd like nothing more than to run from the room but doesn't allow himself to admit defeat in that way, and Arthur sighs, his hands moving up to cradle Merlin's face on their own accord. "I know," he breathes against the slight shudder in Merlin's jaw, and tilts his head down so he can press his forehead to Merlin's. "I've known for a long time. It's _okay_ , Merlin, you—" Arthur swallows hard when Merlin flinches back a little, because he thinks he has a general idea of the images that must be flashing through Merlin's mind.

"You're safe," Arthur says, with a vehemence that almost startles him. Their faces are so close that Merlin's eyes are little more than blurry pools of blue, but Arthur still holds his gaze, willing the words to push the remembered smell of smoke from Merlin's mind. "I would never let anything happen to you."

"Oh," Merlin breathes, and sways a little, and when his hands come up to clutch at Arthur's wrists, it seems more out of a need for support than anything else. "I— I thought you'd be angry."

His voice is unsteady and tentative, like he doesn't want to give Arthur ideas, and Arthur finds himself smiling, almost against his will, and just makes the snap decision to hide it against Merlin's mouth. "I am," he assures Merlin, in between small pecks to the tight, trembling line of Merlin's lips. "Just give me a few minutes to work up some steam."

Merlin laughs a little, shakily, but it ends in a choked-off sound that Arthur spontaneously decides he never wants to hear again. He just pulls him closer then, and continues brushing his mouth against Merlin's in feather-light touches that are more experimental than anything else, and if Merlin's lips taste a little like salt by the time he finally starts to kiss back, Arthur doesn't mention it.

* * *

Not much changes after that either, except for how Merlin takes to sleeping in his bed more often than not, is somehow even more insolent, and ignites small fires in Arthur's chest whenever he smiles at him just so, the sooty, suggestive sweep of his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. The first time Arthur puts his hand down Merlin's breeches, another flimsy porcelain decoration falls off its shelf, but he never liked that cup in the first place—and really, being the generous person he is, Arthur figures he can overlook that anyway.

* * *

And then there's one time when Arthur wakes in the middle of the night, with Merlin's face pressed into his neck at an angle that's surely uncomfortable, breathing a warm, damp patch into Arthur's collarbone.

Moonlight is streaming in through the windows, and Arthur grumbles a little as he disentangles his legs from Merlin's and sits up. Of course Merlin forgot to close the curtains last night—apparently, doing inappropriate things to the crown prince in his bath was very distracting. Merlin just makes a displeased sound at being deposited on the pillows, though, and Arthur accredits his answering absent smile to drowsiness.

He swings his legs out of bed, sucking in a quiet breath when his feet hit the cold stone floor. Too late, he realized that Merlin sitting in his lap and licking wine from his lips earlier that evening was probably part of an elaborate ploy to get him to drink more than he usually would have. But well, by the time Merlin had guided him to his bath with a suggestive smile on his wine-stained mouth, Arthur had forgotten to mind.

It would be best to stand facing the bed, Arthur thinks vaguely as he pulls back the blankets—that way he'll hit the mattress if he falls forward, or crack the back of his head against the cupboard if his weight ends up tipping back. He's still half-asleep, though, and the insistent pressure in his bladder is enough to reduce the prospect of getting a concussion to little more than a faraway, unavoidable inconvenience.

Arthur can't tell if it's the scrape of the chamberpot on the floor that wakes Merlin, or the sudden absence of his living, breathing pillow. At any rate, he makes a quiet snuffling noise before he lifts his head to give Arthur a sleepy, uncomprehending look, his eyes little more than glittering slits in the moonlight.

He yawns so expansively that Arthur hears his jaw crack, but before Arthur can tell him to go back to sleep, Merlin is already moving. He appears to get tangled in the blankets for a moment, and Arthur watches in sleepy confusion as Merlin mutters a curse under his breath and finally staggers out of bed, all but barreling into Arthur when he loses his balance on the cold floor for a moment.

When Merlin moves to stand behind him, Arthur almost turns to catch his eye, confused, but Merlin mumbles something that he probably meant to be soothing but that comes out sounding vaguely insubordinate. His chest is like a furnace against the chilled skin of Arthur's back, and Merlin presses his face into Arthur's neck, breathing quietly on his collarbone much like he did in bed. For a moment Arthur thinks Merlin has fallen asleep again, but his stance seems steady, and the slide of his arms around Arthur's waist is anything but sleepy.

All in all, Arthur suspects he should be grateful for how drowsy he still is as well, because it's quite difficult to work up a suitably mortified reaction with the haze of sleep still clouding his mind. For the first time, it occurs to him that he might not _need_ to, that this might be what Merlin has been trying to tell him all along—in the protective cover of darkness, it's not all that hard to admit that Merlin could have been right. And maybe it's okay for Arthur to rest his temple against the dark head next to his, and simply let the uncomfortably tight feeling flow out of his belly, and share Merlin's breaths in the dark.

Merlin's arms tighten around him like a vice when he stumbles, his hold surprisingly strong for all his apparent scrawniness, and Arthur lets the firm embrace guide him into darkness.

When he comes to, Merlin's left arm is still flung across his waist, the weight anchoring him to the bed, with his other hand buried in Arthur's hair, and this time it doesn't feel like he'll remove his fingers any time soon. Arthur breathes deeply to dispel the last vestiges of nausea from his stomach, waiting patiently until the little flashes of light stop dancing across his vision. Merlin's breath is once again creating a damp patch on Arthur's shoulder, already deepening back into the pattern of sleep, although Arthur can tell from the way his fingers keep twitching that he's not quite asleep yet.

At first, it doesn't occur to him to carefully avoid thinking of what Merlin just did, but even when it finally does, Arthur's sleepy mind can't quite figure out why a distant part of himself feels like he should try.

As if on cue, Merlin slurs a tired, "No thinking," the words muffled against Arthur's collarbone, shoving a little at his shoulder before he puts his head on Arthur's chest, almost like fluffing a pillow. "Sleep."

Arthur blinks down at him for a puzzled moment before his eyes close on their own accord, as though eager to obey the drowsy order. Merlin makes an approving sound in the back of his throat, his thumb moving to stroke tired little circles into Arthur's temple; and well, given how fatigue is already pulling his mind down into a different sort of darkness, Arthur finds that he can't argue with that.

* * *

Merlin is spread-eagled on top of him when Arthur wakes up next, gangly limbs splayed everywhere, exuding stifling warmth and breathing softly through his mouth with his nose pressed to Arthur's throat.

A sleepy glance to the window confirms that they haven't overslept just yet—the rosy fingers of dawn are only just beginning to creep through the sky, and Arthur lets his eyes droop half-closed again, reassured. He's planned to go hunting with Leon and a few of the other knights in the afternoon; they'll explore the mountainous terrain in the southern parts of the forest, if only because Arthur knows it'll be hilarious to watch Merlin trip over rocks every few steps. There'll be audiences in the morning and training near lunchtime, but right now, Arthur is content to simply lie back and bask in the undisturbed calmness of the moment.

Yawning, he stretches a little, well aware that Merlin must be awake too, from the way his foot keeps twitching against Arthur's calf. His mop of dark hair is utterly disheveled, and the blankets have slipped down to his waist, exposing the creamy expanse of his back to Arthur's gaze. Arthur can see the blueish marks that his fingers have left at Merlin's hips, but he knows that his own shoulder bears several perfect indents of Merlin's teeth in return.

Merlin snuffles and shifts a bit, a sleepy twitch of his limbs before he pushes his head a little more firmly into the crook of Arthur's neck. Arthur can feel Merlin's eyelashes tickle his throat, and rolls his eyes just a little when he catches sight of Merlin's ear slowly reddening from the corner of his eye.

At last, Merlin yawns too, a bit exaggeratedly, and shifts again, moving his head just enough to finally breathe through his nose. A sleep-warm hand comes up to rest lightly on Arthur's shoulder, and Merlin breathes a quiet _'okay?'_ into the warm hollow of Arthur's collarbone, carefully, as though afraid of shattering the quietude with the single word.

"Yeah," Arthur says, a bit gruffly, and pokes that place just below Merlin's left shoulder blade that he knows is ticklish. Merlin kicks at him, and Arthur lets himself revel in the odd warmth suffusing his chest that he forgets to second-guess his next words. "As long as I don't split my head open in, well, about five minutes' time."

Merlin goes still and silent for a moment before he says, earnestly, "We could put a pillow on the floor," his voice the picture of earnest innocence. And although his casual tone can't quite mask the caution underneath, Arthur surprises both of them by laughing first.


End file.
